


Lurk

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_30snapshots, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-30
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes home to an unexpected show.  Dean's figured something out.  They need to be on the same page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lurk

**Author's Note:**

> for my [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_30snapshots/profile)[**spn_30snapshots**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_30snapshots/) table, [here](http://mistyzeo.livejournal.com/5726.html).  
>  in audio form by [](http://pattyposh.livejournal.com/profile)[**pattyposh**](http://pattyposh.livejournal.com/) [here.](http://mistyzeo.livejournal.com/59867.html?dr_log=-1&linkout=http%3A//www.box.net/shared/yuylqt9ges%3Fsid%3DGAN_547922391)

  
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be home at all, in fact: he'd gone out with a couple of kids from school, just out to pizza, but then they'd decided they wanted to go to a movie, and Sam didn't have the cash (he hadn't asked for it, he hadn't expected it), and they'd said they'd cover him, but that would just mean that he'd owe them later. So he walked home, scuffing his shoes on the sidewalk and ambling, head down, irritated and relieved all at once. He wasn't sure, exactly, how to have friends. It was weird being invited places after school. Going home alone was normal.

He can't blame Dean for it, anyway. He'd figured Dean would be out on his own, maybe at the bar making some money, or out with some girl from Sam's school, where he was too old to be hanging around anyway, the creep. Dean was twenty-one, and dating eighteen-year-olds was not cool, any way you slice it.

So Sam unlocked the door quietly, not needing to make a big clamor, coming home to an empty house. The living room and kitchen were dark, and the house was quiet. He climbed the stairs, almost silent, and as he headed down the hall to the room he shared with Dean, the light spilling from the crack in the door had stopped him short.

Now he was standing, lurking in the hallway, looking in at Dean.

Dean, who must have decided now was the perfect time to take advantage of an empty house. Dean, who was spread out on his bed half-naked, t-shirt up under his armpits, jeans and boxers in a heap on the floor. He had one leg up, his heel planted on the bed, and the other leg sprawled wide, giving Sam an unparalleled view of his cock, stiff and red against his belly, and his balls, heavy and tight between his thighs.

He'd seen Dean naked before, knew objectively what his dick looked like, but this-- this was-- not the same.

Sam took a very tiny step closer, to where he could see all of Dean-- his head, thrown back on the pillow; the flush of arousal on his bare skin; the way his toes curled in the sheet when he slid one hand up his thigh and the other over his chest, fingertips circling one nipple. Sam watched Dean bite his lip, sighing, and cup his balls, rolling them gently between his fingers.

He couldn't see if Dean was leaking, but Sam bet he was-- he would be, by now, if he'd been teasing himself like that. Sam's hand drifted down to press against his hardening cock in his jeans, unbidden, and he had to grit his teeth to keep silent. This was so wrong.

Dean tugged at his balls, slowly, and moaned then, and Sam was shocked at how quiet he was. Even in a (supposedly) empty house, Dean held back. Sam wanted to hear him louder-- hear him moan and shout and let go. Fall apart.

Dean's other hand joined the first, closing his fist around his stiff cock, and he let out another little noise of appreciation that made Sam's stomach clench. Dean rubbed his thumb over the head of his dick and it slid easily-- definitely wet. In the light of the single clip-lamp Dean had on, Sam could see the shine of pre-come on Dean's thumb, slipping lower to press at what Sam knew was a very sensitive spot just below the head. Dean sucked in a breath and Sam echoed him, fingers clenching around the rigid line of his cock in his pants.

 _Come on,_ Sam thought, teeth digging into the inside of his cheek, and Dean obeyed him, beginning to pump his fist up and down, no longer teasing. His other hand abandoned his balls and slid farther back, and Sam wished he could see better-- he wanted to see Dean touch his hole, press his fingers in, fuck himself.

But Dean seemed to lose his nerve, face flushing and hand falling away, resting on his thigh while he worked his cock, the wet, pink head popping out of the circle of his fingers. Sam wanted to lick it, see what Dean tasted like, swallow him.

He was kneading his dick through his jeans now unashamedly, squeezing and rubbing and scraping a fingernail across the covered head, shuddering at the sensation. He reached out with his other hand and found support on the wall, and knew that if he watched Dean come, that would be it.

God, he wanted that. Heat was flaring hot and thick in his stomach, building rapidly, and he felt stretched taut, aching for it. This was better than making out with Liz Perkins from Social Studies, and he thought maybe he should be having some kind of epiphany or freak out, but right now he just _needed_ to come.

He pulled back, hand shaking, pulse pounding, tingling with how close he was. Dean was still jacking his cock, fist sliding fast and easy, and Sam caught sight of the bottle of KY at his elbow. Jesus, no wonder. His hand was shiny with lube, cock gleaming, and Dean was grunting and pushing his hips up into his fist.

Sam was done-- he grabbed himself through his jeans again, hips jerking, and tried desperately to keep his eyes open as he came, hot and slick in his boxers. He bit down into his bicep to keep quiet, and watched Dean arch suddenly, groan catching in his throat. He shot thick spurts of come up his chest, breath hissing out of him in a stuttered, "S-s-s-s-- jesus fuck," and Sam shuddered all over again, working himself through the end of his orgasm, fingers tacky in the stain on the front of his jeans.

He was so fucked.


	2. Lurk

  
This was a mistake, Dean thought. He should have stopped. He should have turned off the light, or pulled the sheet up, or taken his goddamn hand off his goddamn dick, but he hadn't. He'd heard the front door open and close, and he hadn't done any of it.

Dean knew the sound of Sam's footsteps like his own heartbeat, and he knew it was Sam coming up the stairs, quiet and unassuming. Sam didn't know he was about to get an eyeful, poor kid, but if Dean was wrong about this-- and he was pretty damn sure he wasn't wrong-- Sam would just yell at him for being a disgusting pig, and go wait downstairs.

Sam didn't. He stopped short, just out of sight beyond the sliver of light that hit the far wall of the hallway, and Dean heard his short, sharp inhale.

Dean didn't know how he could possibly feel more naked, being already mostly naked, but the knowledge of Sam's eyes on him made his skin tingle and his heart rate skyrocket. He was mostly hard already, just from the innocent anticipation of getting a chance to jerk off in peace, but now his cock was thick and stiff against his belly, leaking wet drops of precome. It was all or nothing, Dean thought, so he spread his knees and went at it. He licked his thumb and dragged it down his chest, rubbing one nipple until it was peaked, sending little thrills of pleasure through him. His cock jerked and blurted another sticky drop, and Dean stifled a moan. This was all kinds of fucked up, but he couldn't stop.

His other hand traced a line up the inside of his thigh, tender skin all delicate and sensitive under his fingertips. His cock was a heavy weight, his balls tight and aching to be touched, and when he finally did touch them he had to bite his lip to keep from shouting.

Beyond the door, Sam had stepped closer, and now Dean could see his silhouette. He shuddered all over again, and curled his hand around his dick. The promise of a long, leisurely jerk-off session was gone, blown away in the face of _this_ \-- so much more-- to have Sam watching him and wanting him.

Dean congratulated himself at reading his brother right as he rubbed his thumb over the sticky, sensitive head of his cock. He'd figured out the looks, the sidelong glances, the reluctance to get a girlfriend. Sam muttered excuses about their always leaving town just when he'd gotten settled, but Dean had seen right through his bullshit. Sam thought he was screwed up. He was right, of course, but Dean understood all too well how he was feeling. Now he just had to convince Sam that it was not as big a deal as he was torturing himself over.

This, in retrospect, might not have been the best way to tackle the issue, but Dean was nothing if not a professional at avoiding direct confrontation. So he jacked his cock a little faster and dropped his other hand down to his sac, tugging gently and rolling his balls between his fingers. He imagined Sam doing this, Sam touching him just the way he liked to be touched. He pictured himself teaching Sam what he liked, and he imagined Sam returning the favor, and both of them, kneeling on the bed, touching from forehead to thigh, hands around each other's dicks, learning. Figuring it out together. Dean had to guess what Sam's dick would feel like in his hand-- big, he bet. Sam was getting taller and taller, and the kid had to be proportional. His cock would be thicker than Dean's, longer-- Dean wouldn't be able to get his hand around both of them. Sam would be so desperate for it, so innocent, and Dean would kiss him, deep and dirty, and show him the ropes.

There was lube, somewhere here, and Dean fumbled for it. He'd never been fucked before, but imagined he'd let Sam open him up, slide his fingers deep and stretch him wide. He eased his own fingers down into the crack of his ass and pressed them firmly against his hole, but he couldn't quite bring himself to sliding them in. The lube in his hand, though, didn't go to waste, and the slick slide of his hand up his dick got even better.

Dean wondered if Sam was jerking off too, if he was there in the hallway (and Dean could still see him) with his hand down his pants, wanting this as bad as Dean did. Dean's hand flew on his cock, wet and slippery, and he squeezed it firmly, hips pushing up into the circle of his fist. He wanted to fuck Sam, hold him down and plow into him, or get him to ride his lap. Just like this.

Then he heard Sam's bitten off moan, a sudden, uncontrolled noise as Sam came in his jeans, and Dean's orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut. He arched up and came, hot and sticky, all over his stomach and chest, and heard himself start to form Sam's name. He clamped down it-- not yet, not tonight-- and swore instead, collapsing back onto the bed.

As he lay with his eyes closed, lax hand resting on his belly, cock softening, he heard Sam take a step back, then a few more, and then fumble his way back downstairs. He heard the front door open, loudly, and slam shut, and Sam was yelling that he was home.

Dean gathered his strength and reached up, turning off the little light above his head. He pulled the sheets up around his waist, not bothering to wipe himself off, and Sam came into their bedroom more noisily than he normally would.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, and Dean said nothing.

Not yet.


	3. Linger

  
In the morning, it wasn't difficult to pretend nothing had happened. Dean was up before him, as usual, yanking the blankets off his bed and shaking him to get up for their run. Sam bitched and moaned his token protest until they were out of the house, and then he shut up and kept pace with Dean for four miles. Dean usually liked to push him, but he must have been feeling generous, because by the time they hit the park in the center of town he was slowing to a walk, pausing for a drink of water, and turning them around again.

"You good?" he asked as they started up again, and Sam nodded. He was fine.

That was a little bit untrue. He was fine with the run-- hell, he'd done a lot worse, a lot farther, a lot faster-- but watching Dean now, and knowing what'd he'd seen last night. Fuck. Dean was sweating in the early morning air, the collar and underarms of his shirt soaking, the middle of his back wet with it. He smelled good when he sweat like this, strong and pure, like work. Like effort. Sweat spiked his hair and dripped down the back of his neck, and Sam almost broke his face tripping over the sidewalk when he let himself think about how badly he wanted to taste it.

"Jesus," Dean muttered, grabbing his arm before he hit pavement. "Distracted, Sammy?"

"No," Sam lied, and was eternally grateful that the exertion of the run was making it impossible for him to get hard. Any other time, and he'd be pitching a tent in his gym shorts. Christ.

Dean didn't say anything else until they were back at the house, and then he was stripping off his shirt before they were even in the back door, shouting, "First shower!" as if Sam weren't right behind him, getting a front-row view of the muscles of his back rippling as he moved.

Sam let him have it without protest, lingering on the porch and trying to will his body into submission. God, he wanted it so bad. He could taste it in his mouth, how much he wanted Dean, and he could feel it in the shaking of his hands. Dean had no fucking idea, and Sam had had this under control for so long. _Shit._

Why was he falling apart now?


	4. Urge

It wasn't hard to wind Sam up. Dean knew that. He'd always known that. This was easier than ever before. He just had to show a little skin, flirt a little, and Sam would fold like wet cardboard.

Whenever Sam was home, Dean went shirtless. It was hot out, even in early October, and the place they were staying had no air conditioning. It was perfectly reasonable for him to be cooking dinner in his jeans, barefoot and bare chested, while Sam sat at the kitchen table, trying to do his homework.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, the way he'd glance up and realize Dean was still there, still half-naked, and he'd snap back to attention, bent over his Calculus or his English paper or whatever. It was probably a mean tactic, he thought, watching the pot of water heat up, but it was the only one guaranteed to get Sam's attention.

It was Thursday. It had been almost a week since Dean's little show, and Sam was caving slowly but surely. Dean looked at Sam again, more overtly, and Sam had his chin propped on one hand, pretending to be looking past Dean out the window. Dean licked his lips, and raised an eyebrow. Sam repeated the motion unconsciously, and then seemed to startle into full awareness and looked away, blushing.

"What's up, Sam?" Dean asked, sidling around behind Sam's chair. He put his hands on Sam's shoulder and leaned close under the pretense of looking at Sam's homework.

"Uh," Sam said, "nothing. Just, you know. Math stuff."

Dean squeezed his hands, kneading the muscle of Sam's shoulders. Sam was starting to lose the scrawny boy look since he turned seventeen, and was bulking up, getting taller, getting bigger. His shoulders were strong and firm under Dean's fingers, and Dean dug his thumbs in.

Sam arched, grunting.

"Sorry, too hard?"

"No," Sam said, sounding breathless, "No, it's okay."

"Mmm," Dean said. He worked his way up the back of Sam's neck, and Sam's head fell forwards as he rubbed the tendons with his thumbs. Then Dean dropped his hands back to Sam's shoulders and squeezed his trapezius, sliding his thumbs to either side of Sam's spine.

Sam put his elbows on the table and leaned forwards, not one to turn down an impromptu massage. Dean swept his hands down Sam's back and planted them below his ribcage, working his way up now, pressing and touching. Sam moaned quietly, and Dean bent his head.

Against Sam's ear, he murmured, "You like that?" and Sam nodded, shaggy hair hiding his face. Over his shoulder, Dean imagined he could see the bulge of Sam's erection in his jeans, but it might have been the shadow of the table. He preferred his imagination to reality in that case.

But then Sam leaned a little farther forwards, and the chair creaked as he spread his knees. There. That was definitely making room for a hard-on, and Dean couldn't help smiling. He pressed his cheek against Sam's and slid his hands around the sides of his ribs, fingertips brushing one of Sam's nipples through his shirt.

Sam exploded out of the chair, knocking Dean back and sending the chair skittering and bouncing to the floor.

"Oh, god," Sam said, gathering his things and looking aimlessly at his bare wrist. "I need to go-- shower, before my-- thing." And he darted out of the room, muttering something about marshmallows or soccer.

Dean rubbed the spot where a bruise would form under his chin from Sam's shoulder, and nodded to himself. A few more days, he figured. He went back to the stove and opened the box of macaroni. The water was about to boil.


	5. Capitulate

  
Sam was going crazy. There had been the one accidental sighting of his brother jacking off, and now everything was all fucked up. Dean was acting weird, or maybe he was just seeing things wrong, but he was sure things were different.

Dean was touching him more. He'd put a hand on Sam's back when he was picking him up from school, or he'd touch his arm when he was asking what he wanted for dinner. When they watched TV, he'd sit on the sofa next to Sam instead of in the chair he'd claimed for his own, and his thigh would press against Sam's and his hand would brush Sam's leg, and Sam would miss the point of the show.

He'd ruffle Sam's hair when he was teasing him, and then leave it there, warm and tingly on the back of his neck.

He'd suddenly insisted they spar more, like it was going to make a difference. Dad was gone, going on two weeks now, and not due back for another several. They'd been in town for two months, and it didn't look like they'd be going anywhere soon. Which meant Sam was in school, Dad found local jobs, and sometimes Dean went with. Sam never went with.

But Dean was knocking him into the grass and pinning him, rolling him over and pinning him, pushing his shoulders into the backs of Sam's knees and pinning him. Sam tried to fight back, tried to use everything Dad and Dean had taught him, but he was so fucking distracted by Dean's body against his, Dean's fucking smug handsome face right there, Dean's hands on his shoulders, his arms, his sides.

"Stop, Dean," Sam gasped, trying to catch his breath. Dean had him pinned, _again_ , one knee planted at Sam's hip, the other between Sam's legs, and he couldn't get any leverage. He'd also pinned Sam's wrists above his head, and Sam felt so exposed, so open to his brother, and so fucking turned on he couldn't think straight.

"What?" Dean asked, grinning. "What's the matter, Sammy?"

"This is stupid," Sam said, shaking his head, looking away. "Fuck, Jesus, Dean."

Dean didn't move. He kept his hands wrapped around Sam's wrist, and he was fucking straddling Sam's thigh, and he just smiled, grin softening into something a little more gentle and fond.

Sam was hard. Fuck, he'd probably been hard for the better part of ten minutes, with Dean all over him like this. Dean hadn't noticed, which was fucking shocking, since he had his thigh jammed up against Sam's junk, and Sam was wearing sweatpants. His ratty t-shirt sagged at the collar and the grass of the yard tickled the back of his neck.

He tried to lift his head to get away from the prickle, and Dean let go of his hands. Then he swung his leg up and straddled Sam's hips instead of just one thigh, and pinned him down more effectively than ever. Sam didn't dare move, heart caught in his throat, lest Dean realize how fucked up he was. Dean's body was hard and hot, his hands on Sam's chest were big and firm, and the light in his eyes was dangerous.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked. He was smirking.

Sam made a choking noise that he hoped translated somehow to, "Get off me, you crazy fuck."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Didn't catch that. Oh, wait." He rose up on his knees, and Sam went limp with relief, for about the point two seconds it took Dean to stick his hand between them and cup his hard dick through his sweats.

Sam shouted, "Jesus, Dean!" and his hands flew to Dean's shoulders to push him off, but Dean rubbed him firmly with the heel of his hand, eyes fixed at the space between them. Sam muttered, "Oh, fuck," fingers clenching.

"It's okay," Dean said, curling his fingers around Sam's cock. "Right? It's okay, Sam."

"Guh," Sam said, squirming, not sure if he was trying to get away or get closer. He couldn't believe this-- he had to be fucking dreaming, some kind of crazy lucid dream-- and he was gonna come if Dean kept it up.

Dean stopped. He pulled his hand away and put it carefully on Sam's cheek instead. Sam moaned, feeling pathetic and hot with want, and he dragged Dean down by the shoulders, slamming their mouths together.

"Fuck," Dean grunted, but he kissed Sam like he'd been waiting for it, stretching out on top of him, chest to chest and knee to knee. Sam marveled at how well they fit together: mouths locked, hips grinding, cocks aligned. Dean was just as hard as he was, and the friction of Dean's body and Dean's dick and his own clothing was almost too much.

Dean licked into his mouth with practiced ease, and Sam found himself opening under the onslaught. He felt unbelievably jealous of all the people Dean had practiced on before him, and slid his hands into Dean's short hair to hold him there and kiss him harder. He bit at Dean's mouth, licked his teeth, sucked on his tongue. Dean moaned, the sound muffled by Sam's enthusiasm, and he tucked his hands under Sam's head and neck.

Dean broke away, and Sam was about to protest when he nudged Sam's head back and put his mouth to Sam's throat. Sam stared up at the blue sky and white clouds above them, gasping, as Dean found every sensitive spot on his neck and exploited it. He bit hard and sucked a mark into the corner of his neck and shoulder, and Sam felt his body respond, arching up against his brother, knees spreading wide, lungs expanding. His mouth was open, his fingers scrabbling against Dean's scalp, and Dean was taking him apart bit by bit.

He was going to come, jesus christ, he was going to come. He moaned Dean's name, and Dean ground down hard, and that was it.


	6. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean realizes what he's done.

  
Dean could feel him come: felt the arch of his body, the push of his hips, the wet spread of come in his sweats. He could taste the desperation on Sam's tongue, and the relief. Sam clutched at his head, panting into his mouth and shuddering through his orgasm. Dean kept moving, working his hips in circles until Sam let go of his head to grab his ass, stilling him.

"Oh my god," Sam said, tipping his head back on the ground. He was flushed, sweating, and suddenly he looked so young. So fucking young. So young that Dean was slammed with memories of driving him to school, and taking him to soccer practice. He pictured the Christmas when he'd told Sam the truth about everything-- dad, mom, monsters-- and the look in Sam's eyes when he gave Dean his amulet. He imagined picking up after Sam in an early motel room, when Sam was three and he'd left his trucks-- his only toys-- on the floor.

"God damn it," Dean muttered, rolling off. He pushed himself to his feet and started towards the house, regret and shame burning hot in his stomach.

Sam yelled, "Dean!" after him, startled, and Dean shook his head.

"Leave it," he said, loud enough for his brother to hear.

The bathroom slammed behind him, and he was starting the shower on autopilot. He was still hard, whole body aching for Sam, and the image of Sam's face as he came was at odds with the way he'd looked when he was little, smiling up at Dean, trusting him.

He'd fucked up.

The water was scalding, painful on his back, but Dean took it anyway, not bothering to adjust the temperature. He could hear the screen door open and close, and Sam calling his name again. He ducked his head under the water and pretended he couldn't hear, even as his hand slid down of its own volition and cupped his cock.

Sam was just a kid-- the last thing he needed was his screwed up big brother making his life more difficult. If they started something-- something like this-- he'd ruin Sam. Sam would think this was okay, and it wasn't. Dean had let his libido get the better of him, and it didn't matter how eagerly Sam kissed him or how hard Sam came, it was still inappropriate.

Sam pounded on the bathroom door. "Dean! What the fuck, man?"

Dean's fingers slid easily over his dick, water and precome making the slide too good. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and tried to talk himself out of jerking off, even as he started to pull, pumping his hips into his fist, hard and fast.

"Dean, seriously," Sam said. This time he sounded afraid. "You can't just-- do that to me, and then-- run off. Dean, please."

Dean heard the sound of his body hitting the door and sliding to the ground. He imagined Sam sitting against it with his knees pulled up, head bent. His sweats would be tacky with come, and his hair all messed up and stupid, and god, Dean loved him so much.

Too much to do this to him. Do _that_ to him.

But he was still touching himself, reaching down to fondle his balls and stroking back up to rub his thumb over the head of his cock, shuddering at the sensation. Getting to touch Sam, get him off, watch him come, had been too much, and he was already dangerously close. He could feel it building, heavy and hot, and he gritted his teeth against it, even as he jerked faster.

"I know you can hear me," Sam said. "I know you were hard. I could feel it. That's what was so good, Dean. That you wanted it too." Sam's voice broke. "Please, Dean, don't."

But Dean did, fingers sliding on the tile as he came over his fist, so hard he thought his knees would give out. He put his forehead to the wall and let the water run down his chest and wash all the evidence away, and then he took a breath. He washed his hair, washed all the grime and sweat off his body, and by the time he got out Sam was gone.

There was a note on the kitchen counter that read _don't wait up_ , and Dean crumpled it in his fist. He couldn't very well let his little brother wander the streets for all hours, probably unarmed, definitely angry, confused, hurt. But he couldn't quite go after him either.


	7. Converge

  
Dean was sitting in the living room when Sam returned, and his face was dark with anger and poorly hidden worry.

"Where have you been?" he growled, on his feet before the front door had closed.

"Does it matter?" Sam's heart was pounding. He was hot all over, spoiling for a fight, or _something_. He faced Dean with his shoulders back and chin up, confrontational like he only ever was with Dad.

"You can't pull shit like that, Sam," Dean said, scowling. He looked fierce and protective at the same time, and not sure what to do with all the emotion.

"Well, what did you fucking expect?" Sam asked, raising his voice. Dean was a stubborn ass, but Sam would make him fight. "Jesus, Dean, you're so stupid sometimes."

Dean's eyebrows went up, and he crossed his arms. "Excuse me?"

"Why can't you let me be happy?" Sam demanded. Fury and desperation were welling up in his chest, making it hard to breathe or think. He balled his hands into fists, hoping the dig of his fingernails into his palms would help him keep a lid on it. Dean balked, shocked, like Sam had just punched him in the mouth. He took a breath, but Sam interrupted before he could say anything. "Don't give me something like that and then take it away and rub it in my face."

"What?" Dean's voice had dropped to a whisper. "God, Sam, what I did to you--" He put one hand over his face, and Sam realized Dean was trembling all over. All the anger drained out of him at once, leaving him cold. He crossed the space between them in two steps and took hold of Dean's elbows.

"Listen to me," he said. "You didn't do anything _to_ me." He shook Dean, and held on tighter when Dean tried to pull away. "Stop it! Dean, please." He fisted his hands in the fabric of Dean's t-shirt, distorting it. "I want you."

There. It was out in the open. And he already knew how Dean felt.

Dean sighed, air rushing out as his shoulders fell. "I know," he said. "It doesn't make what I did--"

"Shut up, seriously," Sam said, shaking him again. "We're on the same page, you moron."

Dean took another deep breath, and he must have come to a conclusion, because now he was surging into motion, taking Sam's face in both hands and bringing their mouths together. Sam kissed him hard, pushing back, pulling at Dean, until Dean was plastered to his front, one thigh between his own, his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam held onto his arms, fingers curled around his biceps, moaning helplessly. Dean smelled like soap and gel, gun oil and leather. He tasted like fear and whiskey, and Sam did his best to lick the taste of both away. His heart was racing, blood thrumming in his veins, something huge and hot and wonderful in his belly.

Sam broke the kiss abruptly and pulled back to stare at Dean, whose eyes were blown dark with want, just a ring of green iris visible.

"You knew," Sam gasped. "You knew I was there." It had just occurred to him, all the weirdness of the past week coalescing in Dean's admission. "I came home early," Sam went on, "and you were-- oh my god."

Dean's expression was lost somewhere between embarrassed and smug. "Yeah," he admitted, breathless. Then he was pushing Sam backwards until he hit the sofa, and then bearing him down into the cushions. Sam spread his legs so Dean could settle between them, and dragged Dean into another kiss, until Dean murmured, "Did you like it?"

"Like it?" Sam tilted his head back and urged Dean to go for his throat again. God, that had been good. "Fuck, Dean. Came in my fucking jeans just watching you."

Dean groaned, muffled against Sam's neck. "You gonna do it again?" he asked, fingers sliding down to curl around Sam's stiff cock through the denim.

"No," Sam said, decisively. He pushed Dean off so he could unzip his jeans and shove them down around his thighs. His cock jutted hard and flushed between them, throbbing with his heartbeat and wet at the tip. "This time I think you should suck me."


	8. Release

  
Dean's mouth watered, and he had to swallow hard as Sam's hand skated down his own stomach and gripped his cock, pointing it up towards Dean. It was big, bigger than Sam had any right to, and he found himself smirking even as he contemplated the best plan of attack. He might be able to get Sam all the way down his throat, but it would take some coaxing.

He yanked off his t-shirt, amulet cord catching in the collar and strangling him for a brief moment. Then he was free of it, bending down over Sam's lap to slide his tongue over the wet head of Sam's dick.

Sam moaned sharply, fingers clenching, and Dean could taste the hot pulse of precome on his lips. Sam's free hand, the hand that wasn't gripping his cock, slid over the back of Dean's head, ruffling through his short hair and coming to rest on the back of his neck.

"Please," Sam said. "Dean, c'mon, I want it so bad."

Dean ducked his head, taking Sam into his mouth as far as he could. Sam's cock pressed against his throat, stretched his mouth wide, and when his lips met Sam's fingers he couldn't swallow around the size of him. He was hot, skin delicate and smooth, and Dean's own cock jerked in response, throbbing in his jeans. Sam tasted like salt and he smelled like sweat, heady and musky and perfect, and Dean wanted to be balls deep in his little brother like, yesterday.

"Will you fuck me?" Sam asked, like he was some kind of mind-reader. "Jesus, Dean, I want you to fuck me." He was panting, and Dean pulled up off his dick until just the head was in his mouth. Sam shuddered when he licked slowly around it, swirling his tongue, sliding it against the slit and rubbing it purposefully against the sensitive underside.

Sam spasmed, gripping Dean's neck and pushing his hips up. His cock sank into Dean's mouth and Dean heard him groan, like he'd been wounded. His stomach was tense under Dean's hands.

Sam hissed, "Jesus, yes," and Dean swallowed around him, sucking him deep again and pulling off, and then letting Sam pick up the rhythm and fuck up into his mouth. The roll of his hips was smooth and precise, like a wave. Dean wanted to watch him fuck, watch him push into a warm, willing body, hips snapping, tight ass clenching as he fucked.

He pulled off suddenly, mouth slick and numb. Sam moaned, and he raked his short fingernails over Dean's scalp, sending the sensation tingling down his spine.

"Fuck me here," Sam said. "Now, please, Dean."

"No," Dean said, gathering shreds of common sense. "In the bedroom-- I gotta get a condom--"

Sam shook his head, and his lip was caught between his teeth, coy and shy at the same time.

"Sam, you don't know where I've been, dude."

"I do," Sam said, cupping his face and pulling him close. "Right here. Always. Why, you got a good reason you shouldn't fuck me bare?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said. He couldn't think. He sat back on the couch, putting some distance between them. Sam was a sight-- legs spread, cock poking out of his jeans all wet and hard, his face flushed and his hair a mess.

"I've never done this," Sam said.

"Wh-- you've been with girls, though, right?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder.

"You haven't?"

"No, I have," Sam said. "But I was careful. Not like you didn't drill it into me." He grinned then, smile flashing.

"No," Dean said. He couldn't do that-- it was too much. Felt permanent. He wasn't sure if Sam would get that, as much as he wanted it.

"Dean--"

"I said no, Sam. If you want me to fuck you, we'll do it my way."

Sam groaned, dropping his head back, and Dean smacked him on the thigh.

"You're such a bitch," he said. He pushed off the couch and offered Sam a hand. "Do you want it or not?"

"Yeah," Sam grumbled, taking his hand and pulling himself into Dean's space, pressing up against him, hot and hard and strong. "Let's go."

Sam fell back on his bed and kicked his jeans off, leaving him in just his worn old t-shirt. Dean shucked off his own jeans and stepped to the edge of the bed, feeling bare in just his boxers. Sam's were on the floor, and he was gloriously half-naked, presenting himself to his brother. Sam rubbed the palm of his hand over his cock, humming and pushing up into the touch, and Dean snatched everything he needed from under his mattress. His hands shook, trembling even as he tossed the condom beside Sam and climbed into the bed, kneeling over him. Sam slid his hands up Dean's sides, letting out a shaky breath, and he was very studiously avoiding the sight of Dean's erection tenting out his boxers.

"Hey," Dean said, leaning down to kiss him gently, just a careful press of lips. "It's okay."

"I know," Sam said, smiling. His smile was bright and hopeful, and it lit Dean up inside. "I'm just-- new. You know."

Dean kissed his cheek, and the bridge of his nose. "No shit." Sam's skin was warm under his mouth, soft and smooth, except for the line of his jaw, where Dean's tongue scraped over stubble.

"When did you start shaving?" he murmured.

"Dean, focus. We can talk about beauty habits later, okay?"

Dean nipped his collarbone. "Fine, princess."

Sam knocked him in the hip with his knee, and spread his legs purposefully. "Can we get on with it?"

"Christ you're pushy," Dean said, but he squeezed lube over his fingers and dipped his hand between Sam's legs. He rubbed his slippery fingers over the tight seam of Sam's sac, and Sam shivered, murmuring something. Farther back, sliding into his crack, and then Dean's fingertips were pressing against his hole.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Dean, I will kill you."

"Okay," Dean said. "Fine. I'll fuck you."  



	9. Claim

  
The first slide and stretch of Dean's fingers was weird and uncomfortable, but Dean kept Sam distracted, with his other hand on Sam's bare thigh, skating between his knee and the soft skin of his belly. He was murmuring, reassuring, and Sam closed his eyes and let the sound of Dean's voice wash over him, even as Dean spread him open: two fingers, and then three. He felt Dean searching, pressing, and then he found his target and Sam shouted in surprise, hot pleasure rocketing through him.

And then Dean was pulling those fingers out, and Sam would have complained if he couldn't hear Dean kicking off his boxers, feel the staying press of his other hand on his thigh, and sense Dean leaning down on one elbow over him. Sam heard the rip of the foil, and then Dean's cock was nudging his entrance, blunt and hard and way too fucking big to possibly fit.

But Dean pressed in, slowly, so fucking slowly, and once he was fully seated he slid both arms under Sam's shoulders, cradling him. Sam lifted his legs to wrap them around Dean's narrow waist, dug his heels into Dean's ass, and Dean put his mouth to Sam's ear.

"That good?" he asked, low and tightly controlled, and Sam nodded. He could picture Dean's face, all tense and serious, the way he looked when he was trying to solve a problem, figure out the root of a case.

His hands were warm, almost hot, under Sam's shoulder, and one hand slid up to cup the back of Sam's head. Dean spread his knees a little wider, getting settled, and then he started to roll his hips, fucking into Sam very shallowly. Sam could feel his own body opening up, relaxing under the pressure of Dean's knees and the presence of Dean's hands. Dean kissed his cheek, his temple, breathing shallow.

Sam could feel Dean's chest against his own, smooth and hard, and he suddenly needed-- _needed_ \-- to arch up into him, muscles flexing, back bowing off the bed. His cock pressed against Dean's abdomen, and the angle changed, and suddenly Dean was even deeper inside him.

Dean moaned sharply, "Sam," and Sam buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck. His skin felt tight, too small to contain him, and Dean's fingertips sent sparking pleasure through his body.

Then Dean was fucking him, really fucking him, hips working hard and deliberate. He would be sliding up the bed if Dean wasn't holding him so securely in his arms. Sam dug his fingers into Dean's back, heard himself chanting his brother's name as Dean took him apart and put him back together again with every thrust.

He could feel Dean sweating, his back hard to hold on to, his chest hot, his temple against Sam's neck damp. Sam bit him, teeth sinking into the hard muscle of his shoulder, and Dean grunted. Sam let go, soothed the bite marks with his tongue, and then sucked a bruise there, marking him. Dean's moan rattled through him, and Dean turned his head and sucked a hickey high on Sam's throat, behind the corner of his jaw.

Sam couldn't draw enough breath, didn't want to, didn't need to-- panting, open mouthed, while Dean claimed him. He could feel his orgasm starting in his spine, rising fast, tightening his balls and making his cock even harder between them. He tried to warn Dean, get him to slow down, make it last, but he wasn't sure he was making sense.

"Touch yourself," Dean said roughly. "Oh god, Sam, you gonna come for me?"

He was practically shaking with the need to come, with Dean filling him up, deep and hard and fast, and he obeyed. The head of his cock was so slippery, and his fingers slid easily, cupping and stroking. He rubbed his thumb over the head with every pass, and he was going to lose it any fucking second.

Then Dean went still, painfully, achingly still, hips flush against Sam's. Dean's face was tense with pleasure, and then Dean shuddered into motion again, fucking into Sam with short, sharp thrusts, and Sam started to come. He lost track of Dean's peak as his own rushed through him, wave after wave, until he was limp and shuddering in Dean's arms. His stomach was slick with come, Dean's too, and Dean's face was pressed into Sam's collarbone, his back heaving as he caught his breath.

"Fuck," Sam said aloud after a moment of staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Dean lifted his head, and he was smiling, flushed pink from the exhertion. He shifted, cradling Sam still, and kissed Sam carefully, as if he wasn't quite sure he was real.

Sam eased his hand out from between them and put his arm back around Dean, hugging him as close as he could get. Dean was all around him, inside him, and the smell of his body was almost overwhelming. Sam put his nose to Dean's hairline, and it was wet with sweat, but Dean laughed quietly in his ear and kissed his cheek again.

"Don't run off on me again," Dean said, at the same time that Sam said, "Sleep with me."

Dean blinked, bit his lip, and then he started to pull away.

Sam clutched at him. "No, Dean. Please." He could feel his heart breaking in his chest, shattering into pieces that cut deep and jagged into his gut.

"I'm just--" Dean said, huffing quietly. "Just a second. Hold on."

He closed his eyes so he didn't have to watch Dean leave him, but Dean's weight was dipping the bed again in a few moments, and Dean was gathering him up again, naked and a little sticky.

"Chill out, Sammy." He pressed another kiss to Sam's temple, and Sam opened his eyes to find the room dark. "Go to sleep," Dean said softly in his ear, like a whisper of a caress. "I gotcha."

\---

 **the end.**


End file.
